


well you look like yourself

by lamprophony



Series: it hurts until it doesn't [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Fisting, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pain, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shame, Soulless Sam Winchester, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamprophony/pseuds/lamprophony
Summary: Set Season 6, before Dean realizes Sam doesn't have a soul.Sam wants to try something new. Dean's just along for the ride.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: it hurts until it doesn't [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571341
Comments: 17
Kudos: 53





	well you look like yourself

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this with Soulless-Sam in mind, but reading it over I don't know if it comes across that clearly. Ahh well. I was mostly just interested in the fisting anyway. 
> 
> Additional warning for a tiny bit of self-hate / internalized homophobia / bottoming shame? I can’t picture Dean as being anything but ashamed of bottoming, tbh, toxic masculinity is too engrained into his character. So just throwing that warning out there, he’s got a fucked up perspective (that I don’t agree with). If it makes him tragically easy for Soulless!Sam to manipulate, well. That’s part of the fun.

At least no injuries this time, Dean thinks. Well, if you don’t count how the entire right side of his body is black-and-blue, that is. 

“I fucking hate my life,” Dean says, throwing himself on the bed and covering his face with his right arm, grimacing at the movement. He feels Sam’s hand touch the spot where his shirt’s ridden up, slides down to touch his belt. 

“Bro, for real? Now? You’re fucking incorrigible,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, only half joking. “What about getting beat up Casper the Unfriendly Ghost by is hot to you?” 

Sam tilts his head ironically and arches an eyebrow at Dean. “Since when are you _not_ down to get laid?” He puts the back of his hand to Dean’s forehead, face a picture of exaggerated concern. “You feeling okay, buddy?” 

Dean knocks Sam’s hand away. “You’re such a bitch,” he gripes. He flops back down on the bed and crooks his fingers at Sam wearily, a _bring it_ gesture. “Alright, alright, but you’re doing all the work.”

Sam snorts, leans back enough to strip his shirt off and throw it in the corner. “Dude, I _always_ do all the work.”

“Oh fuck off, you do not,” Dean protests. He’s too tired to be appropriately outraged but he scowls at Sam. 

“You’re practically a pillow princess,” Sam continues, leaning over Dean and whispering it into his ear. 

Dean shivers a bit despite himself. “Calling me a princess is _so_ not a turn on.” He lets Sam push him down, though, parting his lips easily when Sam runs a hand down Dean’s face and presses his thumb to Dean’s lower lip. Dean’s eyes flutter closed at the contact and he sucks, tasting salt and the faint remnants of soap. Sam lingers before pulling back, unbuttoning Dean’s jeans and trailing his hand down Dean’s bruised stomach to wrap a big hand around Dean’s cock. 

Dean always forgets how huge his little brother has become, massive hand wrapping around his cock, other hand easily spanning his narrow waist. He moans as Sam spreads his legs apart, lets go of his cock to touch his hole, one thick, slick finger entering him smoothly. “God, Sam,” he moans, simultaneously wanting to shift away and into the intrusion. 

“We’re gonna do something a little different this time,” Sam says. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Dean says, eager now. He’d be embarrassed about the way he’s panting for it, but it’s easy for him to lose himself in this, these moments with Sam. Sam never makes him feel less for it. 

Sam smiles fondlydown at him as he slides another finger in next to the first. This isn’t anything out of the ordinary for them, and Dean rolls his hips slowly, pushes into the feeling. Then Sam adds a third finger. 

Dean’s hips stutter in their movement. “Sam,” he warns, grimacing a bit at the renewed burn. “What – ”

“This is what we’re doing, Dean.” Sam’s fingers push in and out of Dean’s body, the stretch a slow burn. “Only two left, now.” Sam sounds like he’s stating a fact, something obvious. The sky is blue, ghosts are real, and he’s going to shove his hand right up Dean’s ass. 

“ _Two left_ – the whole thing?” Dean says, a little disbelieving. He can feel Sam’s left hand caressing his jaw, feels the huge impossible width of his palm, the strength and length of his fingers. Dean’s not weak, okay; he can take a dick fine, and it’s not like Sam’s dick is anything to scoff at. But Sam has huge, dinner-plate-sized hands, the shape of them imposing and completely unlike the ergonomic length of his cock.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam laughs into Dean’s mouth, leans in and bites Dean’s lower lip. “The whole thing.” The tip of his pinky touches Dean’s entrance, gently probing. Dean tenses up automatically, but all that does is make his asshole tighten up around Sam’s three fingers, making the intrusion feel more obvious, unnatural and awkward. Sam crooks his fingers to hit Dean’s prostate as he wraps his left hand around Dean’s cock. “C’mon, relax for me.” 

Dean reaches up and touches Sam’s face, his hair, looks into his eyes that are almost completely black now, blown-out pupils ringed by pale hazel. He lets the tension go, forces his muscles to relax so he can take more of Sam in, give Sam what he wants. 

The burn intensifies as Sam’s pinky slides in and Dean feels grateful for a moment, glad that Sam was generous with the lube. “Jesus fuck, Sam.”

Sam smirks down at him, pushes his hand in and out of Dean’s body, not giving Dean more than a few seconds to adjust. “Look at you all spread out for me, Dean,” he croons. “You’ll just take whatever I give you, won’t you?”

“Wait, wait,” Dean pants. He reaches down, one hand flat on Sam’s broad chest and the other pushing at Sam’s wrist. He can’t breathe, can’t get used to the sensation because Sam has barely paused, shoved all four fingers up Dean’s ass with what feels like no warning at all. 

Sam knocks Dean’s hands away easily, circles both of his wrists in his left hand and pins them above Dean’s head. It’s nothing Dean wouldn’t be able to get out of, usually, but right now Dean feels like a butterfly pinned to cardboard, spread out and vulnerable and unable to fight back. Sam’s huge hands are all over him, pinning him down and splitting him open. His head is swimming and he’s whimpering, noises escaping his mouth without permission.

“Fuck, fuck, please,” Dean says, not knowing what he’s pleading for, if he wants Sam to stop or keep going. His cock is still hard and leaking precome between his legs. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam says mindlessly. All of Sam’s weight is on his left hand where it’s wrapped around Dean’s wrists. Dean’s hands are going numb under the pressure, another overwhelming sensation to add to the mix. “I know you want more, Dean, you’re as hard as a rock.” He pulls his hand out until his pinky is barely inside Dean’s entrance and then pushes back in all the way to the base of his thumb. 

“Please, I can’t take it,” Dean says, twisting ineffectually as he tries to get away from the inexorable pressure of Sam’s fingers stretching him open. “Please, Sammy…” He’s pinned down and split open under Sam. 

“Shhh,” Sam whispers, leaning in and covering Dean, wide shoulders blocking his view so all he can see is _Sam._ “Yes, you can, you can do it for me.” The tip of his thumb breaches Dean’s entrance, Dean’s breath hitches and he can’t speak, can’t move, mouth open in a silent scream. 

It hurts. Sam has been thorough and careful, if not gentle, but it _hurts_ , it can’t not, almost Sam’s entire hand pressed up into Dean, forcing him to make room and just take it. 

“Fuck, _Sam_ ,” Dean moans. His voice is weak and thin, cracking open on the words. Shame flickers in his chest but he can’t pull himself together, can’t stop the weak gasping moans escaping from his mouth. 

“I’m going to _ruin_ you.” Sam’s lips are parted slightly, eyes shining feverishly in the dark as he looks down at Dean. He pulls his hand out, just a little, just enough for Dean to feel the impossible stretch all over again. He pushes back in, infinitesimally slowly, drawing out the sensation. 

Dean barely notices that Sam’s let go of his wrists, has brusquely ordered him to _keep his hands still_ , until Sam starts jacking Dean’s cock lazily. “Breathe for me, Dean,” Sam says. “This will hurt.” Dean almost snorts out a laugh but it gets caught in his throat as the second knuckle of Sam’s thumb breaches his entrance. It’s the widest point of Sam’s hand, and if Dean felt spread open before it’s nothing compared to how he feels now. 

Sam’s kissing Dean forcefully, Sam’s pressing his fingers into Dean’s prostate, Sam’s thumbing the head of his cock. _Sam, Sam, Sam._ Dean’s orgasm rolls through his entire body, thighs trembling. 

A hazy moment passes as aftershocks rock Dean’s body. A thumb swipes over Dean’s cheek, brushing away a tear Dean didn’t even know was there. “God, you’re a fucking wreck.” The slide of Sam’s hand out of his body feels like it lasts forever, leaving an uncomfortable feeling of _wrong-empty_ in its wake. 

Fingers return to brush the sore and swollen skin of Dean’s hole, probing curiously. Sam reaches under Dean’s thighs and pulls Dean close, almost on his lap, so he can easily sink his cock into Dean. Dean’s body is limp with exhaustion and he lets out a soft sob at the way Sam’s cock rubs against his sore, tender flesh. Sam’s hands roam over Dean’s body, free to explore now, pinching at his nipples and pressing into the fresh bruises from the hunt. Sam fucks Dean carelessly, drawing shivers from his overtaxed and oversensitive body. 

Dean feels feverish, too-sensitive in the wake of his orgasm. It feels like _too much_ , pain blossoming all over, from the press of Sam’s hand on his skin and the press of his cock. Sam finishes with a groan, grinding his hips into Dean and tightening his fingers around his waist. 

The mattress bounces under Sam’s weight when he flops down. He props his head up on his bent arm and trails his hand lazily down Dean’s body, palming Dean’s soft cock absently. Dean groans at the almost-painful brush of Sam’s fingers, pushes Sam’s hand away weakly. 

Sam ignores Dean, pushes down to finger at Dean’s asshole, come and lube slicking the way. “Look at you, all fucked open for me,” Sam’s voice is soft. “You loved that, didn’t you? Practically gagging for it.”

In heat of the moment Sam’s words might have been hot, just mindless dirty talk. But in the aftermath they feel sharp and biting, cutting through the exhausted haze of Dean’s post orgasm high. A hot wave of humiliation swells in Dean’s chest as he turns his face away, pushes against Sam’s hand in his body. The feeling of Sam’s fingers slipping out of his wrecked asshole makes him shiver despite himself, makes Sam huff a derisive laugh. 

“Fuck off,” Dean says roughly. He wants to get up and leave, suddenly feels the overwhelming need to jump in the shower to pull himself together. But his ass throbs warningly when he shifts, so he just gropes for the blanket, pulls it up over his shoulder. 

“Sobbing for it,” Sam continues. He palm’s Dean’s ass, his hand hot enough to feel through the blanket. “You don’t have to hide from me, Dean.” 

The dried tear tracks on Dean’s face feel like a salty recrimination. Dean feels like he’s a step out of sync, oddly betrayed by the cruel edge to Sam’s pillow talk. They’re not _supposed_ to talk about it. It’s the unspoken rule – no sex talk unless they’re actually having sex. Dean knows he’s fucked up, knows the contradiction of liking a cock up his ass at night while he struts around playing badass during the day. But they don’t talk about it. Sam’s always let him hide, afterwards, gave him room to regain his dignity and get on even footing. 

But not today, apparently. Sam’s gaze on his back feels mocking, smug. It’s too much when Dean’s just been flayed open, when he’s lying naked and vulnerable, covered in fresh bruises and come.

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean says finally, after a long pause. 

Sam snorts softly. “Whatever you say, Dean.” He gets up and flops down onto the other bed, rolls over onto his side so his broad back is facing Dean.

Dean can't really get comfortable, not when every position seems to poke at a different bruise on his body. But his eyes are gritty with exhaustion, and despite the discomfort gnawing at his body he's under almost immediately. When Dean sleeps, his dreams are choppy and disconnected, with pale hazel eyes staring out at him from the dark. 


End file.
